We Have Some Salt Of Our Youth

Talkers Are No Good Doers.

Merrily, Merrily Shall I Live Now, Under The Blossom That Hangs On The Bough.

The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Sicklied O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought; And Enterprises Of Great Pitch And Moment, With This Regard, Their Currents Turn Awry, And Lose The Name Of Action.

But Say, My Lord, It Were Not Regist'red, Methinks The Truth Should Live From Age To Age, As 'twere Retailed To All Posterity, Even To The General All-ending Day.

The Fortune Of Us That Are The Moon's Men Doth Ebb And Flow Like The Sea, Being Governed, As The Sea Is, By The Moon.